Camino Winds (Camino Island, #2) by John Grisham Read Online (FREE)
“What about Nelson’s murder?” Bruce asked.
“Could be a tough one. Once we get ’em locked up, charged, indicted, and all that, we’ll start squeezing and offering deals. Usually, someone will cave and try to save his own skin. Sid Shennault looks especially vulnerable, with five kids at home. At any rate, we’ll figure that out when we get there. We know how to be effective when dealing with wealthy criminals who prefer to stay out of jail and keep their toys. Having said that, this company looks to be well run and in the firm grip of a tough cookie. They may not talk.”
Dellinger said, “Obviously, Mr. Cable, it goes without saying that this is extremely confidential.”
“Of course. Who would I tell?”
“Do you plan to correspond with your informant?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Should I?”
“We really need the name of the informant.”
“I can’t give that to you without the informant’s approval.”
“Fair enough. Now, we’d like to ask you a bunch of questions and get your responses on tape, if that’s okay?”
“Can’t wait. Can I ask a question?”
“Certainly,” said Dellinger.
“This appears to be a contract killing, so it’s federal, right?”
“Can we get the FBI office down in Florida to take charge of the investigation?”
“It’s already done.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Cable.”
Two of the suits left with Dellinger. Bruce and Noelle spent the next three hours answering Parkhill’s questions about Nelson, his death, his books, his estate, and the stories told by Dane Noddin, the still unnamed informant. When they were finally released at noon, they hustled down Pennsylvania Avenue to 15th Street and the Old Ebbitt Grill, where they enjoyed a long lunch with Lindsey and Elaine.
Each of Grattin’s facilities was supposed to have its own licensed practical nurse, but the low pay and lousy benefits guaranteed a constant shortage of help at all levels. Laurie Teegue, the current LPN at Madison Road Nursing Home, was pulling duty at two other homes and working fifteen hours a day, with no overtime.
They followed her to work outside the town of Marmaduke, Arkansas, gave her a few minutes to get to her tiny office, then barged in with badges on display. “FBI,” they said in unison. One closed the door as the other motioned for her to sit. They wore matching outfits—khakis, navy blazers, white shirts with no ties—as if by dressing down they would not attract attention. Casual as they tried to be, they were still seriously overdressed in this rural outpost.
Laurie fell into her undersized chair behind her disheveled desk and tried to speak. Agent Rumke held up a hand and stopped her. “We prefer that no one knows we’re here, okay? We come in peace, though we have a warrant for your arrest.”
Agent Ritter whipped out some papers, tossed them on the desk, and said, “One count of dispensing an unauthorized controlled substance known as Flaxacill. Ever heard of it?”